


my love, my love, my love

by rxcrcfllptrs



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Cuddling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 08:58:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19247968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rxcrcfllptrs/pseuds/rxcrcfllptrs
Summary: There were days where they settled for a breakfast burrito or muffin to munch on before classes, so Harley treasures these opportunities for an actual, home-cooked breakfast close to his heart.Or: Harley makes breakfast for Peter.





	my love, my love, my love

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Mary Lambert's [She Keeps Me Warm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NhqH-r7Xj0E).
> 
> This fic is set in a somewhat nebulous timeline where Peter and Harley live together and go to university, and Peter is still doing his Spider-Man thing. Tony lives to sass the everloving shit out of them. It's just an indulgent fic where I project my love for food and good company into the MCU. Enjoy. ♡

It's a rare treat to wake up early as one Harley Keener. The chances of him waking before midday was usually the same as winning the lottery. Or spontaneously combusting without flammables on his person. Or the chances of him _not_ having any flammables on his person.

Sunlight has yet to crack through the curtains, with his arm lifting up to uncover his eyes. He tries to sit up, but there's a very warm presence snuggled up beside him. He can feel a nose tucked in the crook of his neck, arms possessively clutching his waist.

Harley tilts his head and lets his cheek fall into soft curls. He hums as he runs fingers through Peter's hair. Harley's eyes close for a few moments as Peter tries to press their bodies closer together. It's peaceful, contentment settling in his bones. Harley doesn't want to leave.

He knows that Peter had a rough day yesterday, when he felt the bed dip at 3AM. Peter had all but thrown himself to bed after peeling away the suit and changing. There were no injuries but he was wrung out of energy. Harley remembers Peter whimpering, remembers his hand under Peter's shirt, up and down his spine in comforting motions. 

Harley never opened his eyes last night, when Peter kisses him and says "Keep sleeping." He knows Peter doesn't want him to fret, not when it's so early in the morning. So Harley slept.

It's still the early morning when Harley wakes. He extricates himself from Peter's grasp with care, movements practiced from before. Peter whines from the loss, so Harley replaces his person with a pillow, cool to the touch.

"Need to use the bathroom, sweetpea. Just keep sleeping," Harley whispers, dropping a kiss on Peter's forehead before padding out of the room. The door closes with a soft 'click'.

Rather than the bathroom, Harley heads to the kitchen. There's a faint idea itching in the back of his head. He isn't sure if it's something science-y or dumb or something Peter would like _just_ yet. Though, knowing them, it would probably fall under all of the above.

He sniffs before rubbing his nose, then heading to the fridge to prep for the morning. Soon, the counter has the prerequisites for a full breakfast: eggs, sausages, bread, milk, a container of shredded potatoes, and a bag of oatmeal. 

There were days where they settled for a breakfast burrito or muffin to munch on before classes, so Harley treasures these opportunities for an actual, home-cooked breakfast close to his heart.

He sets the chopping board a bit of a way's away from the stove and removes some sausages from their container. He peels two cloves of garlic, smashes and finely minces them. As strange as it sounds, the pungent smell of raw garlic fills Harley with feelings of home. He doesn't always get to prepare mirepoix, what with their busy lives and the convenience of ordering in. It's what it represents, he supposes.

He sets a non-stick on the burner, a bowl on the side, then lets a knob of butter skid across the pan in low heat. The heady scent of melting butter fills the kitchen. When it melts, he cracks four eggs and takes a spatula to the pan. As the eggs set up, he stirs them around, breaking up large curds before they solidify too much. Harley is an absolute fiend for soft scrambled eggs, takes the pan off the heat to season them with salt and pepper. He gives it one last cursory stir before pouring them in the awaiting bowl.

Scrambled eggs, done. He wipes off the last of the eggs with a paper towel before drizzling the pan with a bit of oil. The oil sizzles from the residual heat, so he takes the time to score lines into the sausages and set another plate to the side of the stove. He turns up the heat to medium, oil bubbling up before he lets the sausages on the pan. The wonderful scent of fat, garlic, and assorted spices in the pork starts to perfume the air. Thank Thor for his patience at breakfast or he'd have burnt his tongue trying to eat one right now.

The sausages brown on both sides in a few minutes and Harley pushes them into their waiting plate. The rendered fat stays on the pan, as he pulls the container of potatoes closer to him. He puts another chunk of butter to melt, using the back of his knife to tip the minced garlic in as well.

Harley may not have Peter's enhanced senses, but he does tense up for a few moments. Something tells him that Peter nearly woke from the smells from the sausage. Harley turns the heat to low as he shakes the pan, jaw tight. He spreads the shredded potatoes in a thin layer, wrist resting on the counter as he waits for the hash to brown.

It's a few tense seconds, then a screw loosens. If he had to imagine: a Peter moments from rousing out of sleep, sniffing out the smell not unlike a dog before dipping back into the bed. 

Harley relaxes again as he mixes the sausage fat, butter, and garlic. When the milk solids start to separate from the butter, he spreads a layer of potatoes in the pan and turns up the heat to medium. The starch smothers a bit of the scent, but the sizzle is still loud as the heat draws out the water and into the oil. _Almost there_ , he thinks, like a kid sneaking around with his hand in the cookie jar.

It's going to take a few moments for the hash to brown, so Harley takes a bowl with milk to the microwave — sue him, he doesn't want to do more dishes than he already will — and bread into the toaster. He doesn't want to start up the coffee machine just yet. If the sausages didn't wake Peter, the smell of coffee guarantees it.

Harley returns to the stove to flip the hash, gives it a minute, then turns off the burner. The residual heat from the pan and burner will cook off the rest without leaving it a charred mess on the bottom. _That's_ when he turns on the coffee machine, as the microwave dings and the first pair of bread slices pop from the toaster.

He pops in two more slices of bread into the toaster, and stirs two heaping tablespoons of sugar into the milk. The coffee machine starts to dispense the sweet nectar of life, so he reaches under to get two mugs as well: a [Pipe](https://www.thinkgeek.com/images/products/frontsquare/kski_nintendo_pipe_mug.jpg) and a [Self-Rescuing Princess](https://www.thinkgeek.com/images/products/frontsquare/jsgs_self_rescuing_princess_mug.jpg) mug.

Harley is spooning hashbrowns into a plate when he feels something (some _one_ ) plaster on his back like a koala. "Mmmrghgh," the koala says, burying his face between Harley's shoulder blades.

"Good morning to you too, princess," he huffs, as Peter _basically_ climbs up his back and wraps his legs around Harley's midsection. "Comfy?"

"Mhmm," Peter hums. Harley's grateful for his workouts consisting of moving around metal in the workshop, or he wouldn't be able to do this so often. He sets the plate of hashbrowns and toast on the island, then stirs in the oatmeal to the bowl of sugary milk. He'll never understand why Peter likes his oatmeal runny, but hey, he's just the one making it.

With most of breakfast squared away, Harley positions Peter over a chair and motions him to sit on it. "C'mon, honey, I just need to finish one thing then I'll be with you." It takes a moment for Peter to loosen his grasp on Harley, which he replaces with the oatmeal on one hand, a spoon on the other.

How his boyfriend could be the web-slinging superhero by night and flip to be a human disaster by day, Harley will never know. He fills the pipe mug almost to the brim with coffee, and the princess mug three-fourths of the way. Then he adds a teaspoon of sugar on his coffee, and two tablespoons of sugar on the other. Finally, he adds milk until Peter's coffee is caramel-like in color. 

> _"Such a disgrace to excellent coffee," Harley remembers Tony's remark, that day he found out Peter's coffee preference._
> 
> _"You gave it to us, so I can do whatever the hell I want with it," Peter fires back, drinking it down with a smug smile on his face._
> 
> _"The absolute disrespect in this household, I swear to god!"_

"Here you go, baby," Harley places the mug next to Peter's hand, using his own mug to warm his palms. Peter's done with the oatmeal, already wolfing down the eggs and toast. Harley spears a sausage on his fork to eat and watches his boyfriend.

"You're the best and I love you," rushes out of Peter's mouth, then washing down the food with coffee. Already, the food and warmth of the kitchen is bringing him out of sleep.

"You love me because I can cook," Harley replies with a wry smile, crunching down on a hashbrown. "So you don't have to burn down the kitchen trying to make dinner and ordering takeout anyway."

"Uh, wrong," Peter rolls his eyes. "Clearly I keep you around because you can give me piggyback rides even after I've eaten all your wonderful food."

"Oh! So I'm the trophy boyfriend, then?"

Peter flicks his nose. "To be a trophy boyfriend, you'd have to be a trophy," he giggles before continuing [the quote](https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/ali_wong_985976). "You're more of a... commemorative plaque."

Harley clutches his chest in fake-indignation, lays the country bumpkin accent on thick. "Why _Mr._ Parker, I am _in_ sulted!" He sniffs. "Wait until my _father_ hears about this!"

Peter can't handle much of the ridiculousness anymore and breaks out in peals of laughter. "Okay, Draco La Bouff!"

Harley smiles at the sight, his sun burst of a boyfriend a bright centerpiece livening up the room. He sets down his fork and looks on. There's a few moments where the only sounds are of Peter's laughter, and the real world filtering in from the window, that sound seemingly far away.

Peter actually has to wipe away a tear from the laughter, from the overflow of joy in his person. "What're you looking at?" he asks, struck by the sheer adoration on Harley's faces.

"My lovely, idiotic boyfriend," Harley replies, relishing the light pink dusting the apples of Peter's cheeks. "I love you."

It's such a simple sentence, but Peter's heart kind of stops. The kind of moment where the world just pauses, because he needs to take a moment. That's what their love _is_. Simple. The easiest thing damn thing in the world to do. Against all challenges, against all odds. What else is a man to do but reply in kind?

"I love you too," Peter replies, kissing Harley on the nose.


End file.
